CHAPTER II

HENRI BERGSON

The history of philosophy shows us chiefly the ceaselessly

renewed efforts of reflection laboring to attenuate

difficulties, to resolve contradictions, to measure with

an increasing approximation a reality incommensurable with

our thought. But from time to time bursts forth a soul

which seems to triumph over these complications by force of

simplicity, the soul of artist or of poet, keeping close

to its origin, reconciling with a harmony felt by the

heart terms perhaps irreconcilable by the intelligence.

The language which it speaks, when it borrows the voice of

philosophy, is not similarly understood by everybody. Some

think it vague, and so it is in what it expresses. Others

feel it precise, because they experience all it suggests. To

many ears it brings only the echo of a vanished past, but

others hear in it as in a prophetic dream the joyous song of

the future.

These words, which Bergson used in his eulogy of his teacher,

Ravaisson, before the French Academy of Moral and Political Sciences,

may be applied with greater appropriateness to Bergson himself. For

he, far more than Ravaisson, has shown himself an original force in

the world of thought, and his philosophy also appears to some people

reactionary in tendency and to others far in advance of anything

hitherto formulated. But to all it appears important. "Nothing like it

since Descartes", they say in France. "Nothing like it since Kant",

they say in Germany. His lecture room is the largest in the Collège

de France, but it is too small to accommodate the crowd which would

hear him. They begin to gather at half-past three for the five o'clock

lecture, though they have to listen to a political economist to hold

their seats. A cosmopolitan crowd it is that on Wednesdays awaits the

lecturer, talking more languages than have ordinarily been heard in

the same room at any time during the period from the strike on the

Tower of Babel to the universal adoption of Esperanto. French, Italian,

English, American, German, Yiddish, and Russian are to be distinguished

among them; perhaps the last predominate among the foreign tongues, for

young people of both sexes come from Russia in swarms to put themselves

under his instruction. This may rouse in us some speculation, even

apprehension. Bergsonianism has already assumed some curious forms in

the minds of his over-ardent disciples, and what it will become after

it has been translated into the Russian language and temperament it

would be rash to prophesy.

But the polyglot audience is silent as M. Bergson ascends the rostrum

and begins to talk, in slow, smooth, clear tones, accented by nervous

gestures of his slender hands. His figure is slight, and his face

thin and pointed, almost ecclesiastical in appearance. His hair is

slightly gray, but his close-cropped mustache is brown. The eyes are

deep, dark, and penetrating, the eyes of seer and scientist together.

He lays out his argument in advance in the formal French style, but

unlike most French lecturers he does not confine himself to notes. His

quick turns of thought break through the conventional forms of logic

and find expression in striking and original similes drawn from his

wide range of reading. I suppose all professors are given nicknames by

their students; at least all who are either loved or hated, and that

includes all who amount to anything. Bergson's students call him "the

lark", because the higher he flies the sweeter he sings. His voice,

indeed, seems to come down from some altitudinous region of the upper

atmosphere, so clear and thin and high and penetrating it is. A writer

in the _London News_ put it very well when he said of Bergson's London

lecture, "No one ever spoke before a large audience with more complete

self-possession and less self-assertion."

[Illustration: H. Bergson]

As an experienced teacher he appreciates the importance of repetition,

and in his lectures brings up the same idea in many varied forms and

italicizes with his voice the essential points. All his life he has

been a teacher, climbing up the regular educational ladder rung by rung

to the top.

Henri Bergson was born in the heart of Paris, the Montmartre quarter,

on October 18, 1859. He is descended from a prominent Jewish family of

Poland and he owes his excellent command of the English language to his

mother, for he always spoke that language with her. At the age of nine

he entered the Lycée Condorcet, only a few blocks from his house on

the Rue Lamartine. He was a good student and worked hard, particularly

on geography, which was most difficult for him. Mathematics was his

favorite study, and he then intended to make it his life work, but

instead he chose a harder road, for, as he told me, philosophy is much

more difficult, requires more concentrated thought than mathematics.

Before he left the Lycèe at the age of eighteen he won a prize for a

solution to a mathematical problem, and the _Annales de Mathématiques_

published his paper in full.

Next he entered the École Normale Supérieure, where he came under the

influence of Ravaisson, Lachelier, and Boutroux. On graduation, in

1881, he was made professor of philosophy in the Lycèe of Angers for

two years, afterward for five years at Clermont, then back to Paris,

first in the Collège Rollin and later in the Lycée Henri IV. In 1898 he

was promoted to the École Normale Supérieure, and two years later to

the Collège de France. In 1901 he was elected to the Institute, and in

1914 to the Academy.

The rapid spread of his philosophy in France is due not only to its

intrinsic value and the eloquence with which he presents it, but in

part also to his having been a teacher of teachers. By his twenty

years' work in the secondary schools or _lycées_ of the provinces and

Paris, and in the Superior Normal School, he has molded the thought of

thousands of young men who are now teaching and writing and ruling in

France. His present position as lecturer to miscellaneous audiences

in the Collège of France, though more conspicuous, is really not more

influential than his earlier work. He has the faculty of arousing the

enthusiasm and personal devotion of his students, so the soil all over

the country was prepared in advance for the propagation of his ideas,

and now all he has to do is to sow them broadcast. We may observe

something of the kind in our own country, where Dewey's influence has

been largely exercised through personal contact with teachers. If he

had never published a line, the colleges, normal and high schools in

the western half of the United States would, nevertheless, be teaching

anonymous Deweyism. A philosopher who cares more for influence than

celebrity will prefer a chair where he can reach the largest number of

future teachers to any other position however exalted.

We are not left to speculation as to the extent of Bergson's influence

in French education. A questionnaire on the teaching of philosophy

in the _lycées_ conducted by Binet[1] showed that his ideas were the

dominant force of the time. One school reported that "four professors

here have adopted them without reserve and made them the soul of their

teaching." It is interesting to note that not one of these high school

professors mentioned either materialism or pantheism among their

various philosophic creeds. They were equally divided between objective

and subjective thinkers, or, say, between realists and idealists.

Bergson himself was a materialist to start with, and he worked his

way up into his present spiritualistic philosophy when he found the

inadequacy of his early conceptions. His taste was for the exact

sciences, and in them he excelled while at school. He intended at that

time to devote himself to the study of mechanics, and his youthful

ambition was to continue and develop the philosophy of Herbert Spencer,

of whom he was then an enthusiastic admirer.

But as he studied the formulas of mechanics with a view of discovering

their philosophical implications, and of utilizing them in the

explanation of the universe, he was struck with their inadequacy,

even falsity, when applied to the phenomena of life and mind. In

particular he was troubled by the symbol _t_ which occurs so frequently

in mathematical and physical formulas, and is supposed to stand for

"time." It is represented geometrically by a straight line just like

the three dimensions of space. In fact, as Bergson points out, "time"

as used in physical science is nothing more or less than a fourth

dimension of space. It is purely a spatial conception, an empty

framework in which events may be arranged in order as objects are set

up in a row on a shelf. There is no change or development in it, for

past and future are all the same to it.

Now, when Bergson compared this physical conception of "time" with

real time or duration as he felt it within himself, he found they were

entirely different things. For the mind the past does not stretch

out in a line behind. It is rolled up into the present and projected

toward the future. Still less is there a path or several optional paths

definitely laid out ahead of us in the future. We break our own paths

as we go forward. It is like the big snowballs that we boys used to

roll up to make forts out of; all the snow it has passed over is a part

of it, and in front the snow is trackless.

The mechanical formulas of science are admirably adapted to the purpose

for which they were designed, that is, the handling of matter, but

they are misleading as applied to living beings, and especially to the

human mind, which is the farthest removed from the realm of material

mechanics. Here is true freedom and initiative.

The advocate of free will always gets beaten in the argument with the

determinist when he meets him on his own ground, for adopting the

spatial conception of time and the dynamic conception of motives,

reduces man to a machine and, of course, makes him amenable to the

ordinary laws of mechanics. If it is correct to represent the future

as two crossroads in front of the undecided individual and he pulled

to right and left by "motives" on either side, then the determinist

has it all his own way. The case has been conceded to him in advance,

and the libertarian can only flinch from his logic. But Bergson holds

that when the determinist pretends to talk about the future, he really

is regarding it as already past, as definitely mapped and virtually

existent.

As Bergson's first book, "Time and Free Will", was devoted to the

overthrow of the metaphysical argument for determinism, so his second,

"Matter and Memory", was devoted to the overthrow of the psychological

argument, which is that the mind and the brain are merely different

aspects of the same thing (monism) or that their action is parallel so

that a certain state of consciousness always corresponds to a certain

molecular motion (dualism). Since the activities of the brain are

presumably controlled by the physical and chemical laws, then must be

also the mental activities identical or inseparably connected with

them. But Bergson, taking the position of an extreme dualist, argues

that the mind is distinct from matter and only in part dependent upon

it, that memories are not altogether stored in the brain or anywhere

in space, and that the brain is essentially nothing more than an

instrument of action.

The same is true of our senses, of our bodily organism in general. They

are made for practical, not speculative, purposes. The things nearest

to us are seen largest and clearest. The eye is useful because its

vision is limited. If it were susceptible to all rays, like our skin,

we should get, not vision, but sunburn. Now the understanding, also

having a pragmatic origin, limits our knowledge just as the eye limits

our vision, and for the same purpose.

Let me give a few examples of this limitation of our senses and of

our intellect. Suppose we are looking at a horse or automobile going

past in the street. We get an immediate sense of the movement very

decidedly, but the motion itself we cannot see. We must first analyze

the motion; that is, take it apart, break it up into something that

is not motion. This we can do with a kinetoscope camera which takes

snapshots at the rate of fifty a second. These successive pictures

do not give the motion, no matter how rapidly they are taken. Each

represents the object standing still, or if not quick enough for that,

the picture is blurred; but show these still-life photographs to us in

quick succession, and we no longer perceive them as separate views but

as continuous motion. Why can the camera so deceive us? Simply because

our eyes work in the same way. They are cameras, and the exposure time

of the retina is about the same as that of the moving picture films. A

moving object looked at steadily is merely a blurred band. But if we

wink rapidly, we can catch glimpses of the legs of the horse or the

spokes of the wheel, thus like the kinetoscope transforming motion into

immobility by intermittent attention.

Look closely at a portrait in this book, and you will see that it

consists of pure black and white. Needless to say that the face

portrayed was not composed of black spots of various sizes on a white

ground. In the original there were no black, no white, and no dots.

There were only even shadings, lighter and darker. The picture is an

absolute misrepresentation. Yet viewed with the naked eye at sufficient

distance to put the dots out of sight, it imitates the shading of the

original well enough to be called a "half-tone plate", although there

is really not a half tone in it, nothing but black and white.

Now this trick of decomposing continuous motion into successive

pictures like the kinetoscope and decomposing continuous space into

successive spots like the printing process, is the way we do our

thinking. The mind goes by jerks like the eye. When we think of the

course of history we break it up into blocks of handy size, comparing

century with century, year with year. This is perfectly justifiable,

very useful, in fact inevitable, and quite innocent, provided we

realize that it is a logical fiction, adapted to practical purposes

merely. The trouble has come from not recognizing this. People

generally, and especially scientists and philosophers, have been

inclined to regard this process of rationalization as the way of

getting at reality, instead of as a mere tool for handling reality.

Long ago, when men first began to think hard, they discovered the

inadequacy of mere thinking. Zeno of Elea propounded among other

puzzles that of Achilles and the tortoise, which has kept the world

guessing for twenty-four centuries. While Achilles is making up his

handicap, the tortoise has gone on a bit farther, and when Achilles

has covered this distance, the tortoise is not there, but still ahead,

and since space is conceived as infinitely divisible, Achilles would

take an infinity of time to catch up. I do not suppose the experiment

was ever tried. That was not the way of the Greeks. They placed too

much reliance upon their brains and too little on anything outside of

them to put a theory to the test of experiment. But it has been agreed

everywhere, always and by all, that Achilles would catch the tortoise,

and a considerable proportion of each generation have tried to explain

how he could, often succeeding to their own satisfaction, but rarely

to the satisfaction of other people. For the point to this puzzle is

not to get the answer, but to say why it puzzles us, and to this point

philosophers from Aristotle to Bergson have devoted much study; and

doubtless the end is not yet.

I remember well the day when that ancient jest was first sprung upon me

in the University of Kansas, by the instructor in philosophy, a bright

young man just on from Harvard, who had the Eleatics at his finger

tips. Several of the boys volunteered to explain it, but I, having the

longest arm and snappiest fingers, got the floor. I suggested that

we substitute a greyhound chasing a jack rabbit for Achilles and the

tortoise, who must be tired of running so long. Both greyhound and

jack rabbit progress by jumps, and I argued, with the aid of a piece

of chalk, that these could be measured and laid off on the prairie,

here represented by the blackboard, and so the whole thing figured

out. But the instructor denied my petition for a change of venue.

He stuck to Greece and refused to meet me on my native soil, so I

retired discomfited. I thought him unaccommodating at the time, but

I see now that he was merely wise. Wariness is often so mistaken for

disobligingness. The paradox is solved by science and by common sense

by assuming that Achilles and the tortoise move by jumps instead of

continuously and then comparing these jumps, for they are of finite

length and number.

In short, we know what motion is by common sense, by feeling, by

intuition, but when we come to reason about it, and especially when we

come to talk about it, we have to substitute for it something that is

not motion, but is easier to handle and near enough like it, so that

ordinarily it serves just as well. It is as much like it as the short,

straight lines, substituted by the mathematician, are like the segments

of the curve he is trying to solve. What is true of motion is true in

a way of all our definitions, formulations, laws, and categories; they

are not the real things, but merely handy surrogates. They represent

some particular phase of reality more or less satisfactorily. These

formulas are not designed to pick all the locks of Nature's treasure

chests. They are good for the lock they are designed for and sometimes

others, not all. The master key to all locks either does not exist or

is too cumbrous to be wielded by man.

Bergson's theory of personality arises naturally out of his conception

of time. Time is said to have one dimension. Yes, if we symbolize it by

a line; otherwise not, it has no dimension. The impersonal time of the

philosophers and scientists is merely the spatial symbol of duration.

What our experience shows us is not this empty artificial uneventful

time, but _duration_. And not merely duration, but _durations_, for

there are as many durations of different interval rhythm as there are

consciousnesses. This is what is real in time. Time is really the

continuous unrolling of our conscious life, of psychologic states

which do not become distinct except when it pleases us to divide them.

Personality is a continuity of _indivisible movement_. We can draw a

bucket of water out of the river, and then another bucketful, but we

can never get the stream in this way, for the stream is essentially

movement. The movement is what is substantial about the stream.

From immobile states we can never make of life what experience actually

gives us, for life is change. Only by seizing this change directly in

an integral experience can we solve the problem. To true realities no

concept is applicable. Reality must be regarded itself, in itself, just

as it is; and in giving a description of it, we can fix only the image

of it before our eyes.

The guiding thread of philosophical problems is that the intellect

is an instrument of action which has developed itself in the course

of centuries in order to triumph over the difficulties that matter

opposes to life. The intellect has constituted itself for the purpose

of a battle. The obstacles which it would overthrow are those of brute

matter. The categories of the understanding are constructed with a

view of action upon matter. So where our intellect seeks to know

something else than the material world, it finds itself unable to

grasp it. The whole history of the evolution of life combines to show

that intelligence is an instrumental function for action upon matter,

to formulate and present the laws which permit us to foresee, and

therefore to forestall.

In dealing with a reality like personality, the intellect will first

attempt to handle the subject with the same processes that it employs

for inert matter, therefore it ends in a logical _impasse_. This is

the origin of the difficulties of the question. The concepts which it

would apply to personality are made only for the material world. We do

not know how to apply them adequately to the life of the mind, which

overflows them.

To direct our attention upon the stream of our consciousness breaks

it up and immobilizes it. But it may be reached by another kind of

introspection, which consists in letting live, in trying to reënforce

vitality. In this way activity may become consciousness without

ceasing to be active. Thus the ego may be seized as it really is, as a

transition and a continuity.

In his theory of evolution Bergson draws a sharp distinction between

intelligence and instinct. As intelligence has reached its highest

point in the human race, so instinct has reached its highest point in

the ants, bees, and wasps. Here we see instinct attaining its ends

by the employment of the most varied and complicated expedients. The

ant is lord of the subsoil as man is lord of the soil. The solitary

wasps, whom Maeterlinck would despise as primitive individualists in

comparison with the socialized bees, are used by Bergson to illustrate

his theory of instinct. These insects provide for the future needs of

their larvæ by storing up in their underground nest spiders, beetles,

or caterpillars. These are to be kept alive, as we keep turtles and

lobsters, so they will be fresh, and in order to prevent them from

escaping, the wasp paralyzes them by stinging them at the point or

points where the motor nerves meet. One species of wasp pierces the

ganglia of its caterpillar by nine successive thrusts of its sting and

then squeezes the head in its mandibles, enough to cause paralysis

without death. Other kinds of wasps have to use other forms of surgical

treatment, according to the kind of insect they put into storage. How

can this be explained? If we call it intelligence, we must assume that

the wasp or its ancestors has been endowed with a knowledge of insect

anatomy such as we hesitate to credit to any being lower in the scale

of life than a professor of entomology. If we adopt a mechanistic

hypothesis, we must assume that this marvelous skill in surgery has

been gradually acquired in the course of thousands of generations,

either by the survival of the descendants of those insects who happened

to have stuck their stings into the nine right places (Darwinism), or

by the inheritance of the acquired habit of stinging a certain species

of caterpillar in that particular way (Lamarckianism). But since this

knowledge or skill is never of use to the individual insect and is of

no use to the species until it has arrived at a considerable degree of

perfection, we can hardly adopt either theory without straining our

imagination.

But the assumed difficulties vanish if we adopt the Bergsonian point

of view and regard the caterpillar and wasp as two parts of the same

process. It is no wonder then that they are fitted together. Slayer

and slain have developed for that purpose, and what is apparently

antagonism is really cooperation. The importance of this theory to

those who are troubled about the moral interpretation of the universe

is obvious, for the stinging of the caterpillar would seem something

like picking a sliver out of the left hand by the right, but Bergson

does not go into this question at all.

The formation of the eye, which is the source of much perplexity to

evolutionists of all schools, provides Bergson with an excellent

illustration of his theory. The eye of mollusks is similar in form and

identical in function with the eye of the vertebrates, yet the two

are composed of different elements and grow in a different way. The

retina of the vertebrate is produced by an expansion of the central

nervous system of the young embryo. It is, so to speak, a part of the

brain coming out to see. In the mollusk, on the contrary, the retina is

formed from the external layer of the embryo. Here heredity is out of

the question because of this difference of formation and because the

man is not descended from the mollusk nor the mollusk from man. The

structure of the eye involves the combination of such a large number

of elements and must satisfy so many conditions before it is good for

anything, that it is practically impossible to explain it either as

the effect of the action of light or as the result of an accretion of

slight accidental variations.

But Bergson, coming in with his philosophic faith at the point where

science leaves off, calls attention to the fact that while the eye is

a complicated structure, seeing is one simple act. Why not begin our

explanation with the simple, instead of the complex? The analytical

method of the intellect, though useful in its place, does not lead us

to the meaning of reality. It is as if we could only see a picture as

broken up into a mosaic, or as if we could only consider a movement of

the hand in the mathematician's way, as an infinite series of points

arranged in a curve.

So the eye with its marvelous complexity of structure, may

be only the simple act of vision, divided _for us_ into a

mosaic of cells, whose order seems marvelous to us because

we have conceived the whole as an assemblage....

Mechanism and finalism both go too far, for they attribute

to Nature the most formidable of the labors of Hercules in

holding that she has exalted to the simple act of vision

an infinity of infinitely complex elements, whereas Nature

has had no more trouble in making an eye than I have in

lifting my hand. Nature's simple act has divided itself

automatically into an infinity of elements which are then

found to be coordinated to one idea, just as the movement

of my hand has dropped an infinity of points which are then

found to satisfy one equation.--"Creative Evolution", pp.

90-91.

Bergson seems born to be an exception to Amiel's criticism of French

philosophy: "The French lack that intuitive faculty to which the living

unity of things is revealed." "Their logic never goes beyond the

category of mechanism nor their metaphysic beyond dualism."

M. Bergson's residence is the Villa Montmorency in Auteuil, a quiet

quarter of Paris, lying between the Seine and the Bois de Boulogne. In

summer he goes to Switzerland for greater seclusion and the stimulus

of a higher altitude upon his thought. Here I had the pleasure of

spending an afternoon with him. From Geneva, where I was staying, I

took the railroad that skirts the lake upon the western side to Nyon,

an old Roman town at the foot of the Dole, the highest peak of the

Swiss Jura. St. Cergue, my destination, was nine miles inland and a

half a mile up. The distance I had to go was therefore the square root

of the sum of the squares of these distances, but I did not figure it

out, because, according to Bergson, we live in time rather than space,

and duration is not a measure of length. So I can only say that it was

one of the longest and pleasantest hypotenuses I ever traversed. For

there was a sense of exhilaration in rising ever higher as the carriage

zigzagged through the woods, and in getting a grander view each time we

stopped at a turn to give way to an automobile chugging slowly up or

coasting swiftly down. Arrived at the little village of St. Cergue, I

had still a climb and a search among the hotels, pensions, and summer

homes scattered over the mountainside for Villa Bois-gentil. This was

found in the middle of a meadow backed by a forest of firs, a square,

two-story house, simply furnished but with no affectation of rusticity,

as is common in American country homes. From the inclosed porch there

is a glorious view of Mont Blanc, with the long blue crescent of Lake

Geneva curving around the ramparts of its base. But, as with many

another Swiss view, the effect is marred by the presence of a big box

of a hotel in the immediate foreground.

One would have thought from the cordiality of my reception that a

philosopher had nothing better to do than to entertain a wandering

American journalist. At lunch I had an opportunity of meeting also

Madame and Mademoiselle Bergson, and afterward a long talk with

Professor Bergson, who later accompanied me down the steep mountain

path to the village and along the winding road through the woods. His

conversation has the charm of his books, the enthusiasm for the mission

of philosophy, the wealth of illustrations drawn from many fields of

science and art, the freshness and inspiration of his novel point of

view, the candidness in the consideration of opposing arguments, the

unaffected, unpretentious manner, the absence of the professional

jealousy and personal arrogance which has been characteristic of many

original thinkers. The reader will notice that in his reviews and

criticisms of the historic systems of philosophy, he never seeks to

overthrow them, but is always trying to see how much of them he can

save and assimilate. He believes that it is possible for metaphysics to

have a continuous and positive development like the natural sciences,

each man building on what has gone before, instead of setting up a new

school and endeavoring to secure a personal following.[2]

I took the liberty of extending to Professor Bergson an invitation to

America, for I was able to assure him of a hearty welcome on account

of the deep interest already taken here in his thought. The work of

James and Dewey prepared the way for Bergson in this country, for

his philosophy may be regarded as a constructive system built upon

pragmatic criticism. Indeed, he has been accused by his opponents of

stealing Yankee psychology and making metaphysics out of it. The truth

is, James and Bergson pursued through many years lines of thought

of similar tendency but of independent development, though each has

repeatedly taken occasion to express his appreciation of the work of

the other. It is a case of psycho-metaphysical parallelism rather than

of interaction.

In February, 1913, Professor Bergson came to America at the invitation

of Columbia University and gave two series of lectures, one in French

and the other in English, on _Spiritualité et Liberté_ and the Method

of Philosophy. One would find reason to question the common assertion

that nowadays no interest is taken in metaphysical problems when he

saw the lecture rooms packed with people from the city as well as

students from all departments of the university. A line of automobiles

stood waiting along Broadway, as the litters waited in the streets of

Rome when Plotinus, the Neoplatonist, came to lecture there seventeen

hundred years ago. Those who could not beg, buy, or borrow a ticket

of admission formed a line outside the door, hoping that some who had

tickets would fail to appear, but that did not often happen. A lunette

was discovered over the door which commanded the lecture room, and here

gathered a compact group of the excluded, finding room for one eye or

one ear apiece, but the fainting of a lady in the crush put a stop to

this privilege. In the downtown department stores Bergson's books were

stacked up on the "best sellers" counter. His American publisher sold

in two years half as many copies of "Creative Evolution" as had been

sold in France in fifteen. Yet Bergson is a prophet not without honor

in his own country. The three weeks he spent here were so crowded with

engagements that he had to be kept running on a schedule as close as a

railroad time-table. As he was leaving, I asked Professor Bergson the

banal question of what he thought of America. He answered: "I shall

always remember America as the Land of Interrupted Conversations. I

have met so many interesting people with whom I should like to talk,

but then somebody else equally interesting comes up."

M. Bergson believes that it is possible to make any philosophical

idea clear and acceptable to the multitude. In this he obviously

differs from other philosophers, many of whom do not think it possible

and some of whom do not think it desirable. But to gain the wider

audience, the author must take great pains with his style. The fault

with translations is that the swing, the rhythm, is apt to be lost or

altered, and this is essential to the impression as well as the right

words. I spoke to him of the difficulty of finding an exact English

equivalent of _élan vital_, which is the key word of his "Evolution

créatrice", and he replied that he thought that "impetus", the word

chosen by Dr. Arthur Mitchell in his translation of the work, was

better than any of the others which had been suggested, such as

"impulse", "momentum", "movement", "onrush", "push", "force", and

"urge."

M. Bergson's method of composition is based on his theory of style.

In undertaking a new book he spends as many years as may be necessary

to the mastery of the literature of the subject and the development

of his ideas. Then when he starts in to compose, he sets aside all

his books and notes, and writes at a furious rate so as to get the

book down as nearly as possible in the form it took in his mind at

one time, jotting down his thoughts as rapidly as they come, often in

fragmentary sentences and words, so as not to interrupt the movement of

his mind. Then having put on paper the essentials of his theme with its

original impetus, he devotes himself to the long process of revision,

verification, and correction.

To art in all its forms Bergson has given a large place in his

philosophy. The little book in which he has touched upon it, "Le Rire"

(Laughter), is not so much of a digression from his fundamental line

of thought as may appear. He explains that ridicule has developed as

a method of social control, to whip people into line, to punish them

for willful or absent-minded disregard of social usages. Laughter

is incompatible with emotion. The comic addresses itself to pure

intelligence. A joke cannot be perceived until the heart has a

momentary anæsthesia. There is nothing comic except human beings.

Man has been defined as "the laughing animal." He is also the only

laughable animal. Man becomes ridiculous when we regard him from an

intellectualist standpoint; that is, as a machine. The attitudes,

gestures, and movements of the human body are laughable in the exact

degree that they seem to us mechanical. We always laugh when persons

seem like things.

The bearing of this theory of the ridiculous upon his philosophy is

so obvious that he does not need to state it. Bergson, too, might use

ridicule as a weapon and laugh determinism out of court. The man of the

mechanists would be as funny as a jack-in-the-box.

In the same volume he gives his view of the function of art, from which

a few sentences may be quoted here:

What is the object of art? If reality struck our senses and

our consciousness directly; if we could enter into immediate

communication with things and with each other, I believe

that art would be useless, or rather that we would all be

artists, for our souls would then vibrate continuously in

unison with nature. Our eyes, aided by our memory, would cut

out in space and fix in time inimitable pictures. Our glance

would seize in passing, sculptured in the living marble of

the human body, bits of statuary as beautiful as those of

antiquity. We would hear singing in the depths of our souls

like music, sometimes gay, more often plaintive, always

original, the uninterrupted melody of our interior life. All

this is around us, all this is in us, and yet nothing of

all this is perceived by us distinctly. Between nature and

us--what do I say?--between us and our own consciousness,

a veil interposes, a thick veil for the common man, a thin

veil, almost transparent, for the artist and the poet. What

fairy has woven this veil? Was it through malice or through

friendliness? It is necessary to live, and life requires

that we apprehend things relatively to our needs. Living

consists in acting. To live is to receive from objects only

the _useful_ impression in order to respond to it by the

appropriate reactions; the other impressions must obliterate

themselves or come to us only confusedly. I look and I

believe I see, I listen and believe I hear, I study myself

and I believe I read to the bottom of my heart. But what I

see and what I hear from the external world is simply what

my senses extract from it in order to throw light upon my

conduct; what I know of myself is what flows on the surface,

what takes part in action. My senses and my consciousness

give me only a practical simplification of reality.

Thus, whether it be painting, sculpture, poetry or music,

art has no other object than to dissipate the practically

useful symbols, the generalities conventionally and socially

accepted, in short all that masks reality for us, in order

to bring us face to face with reality itself. It is a

misunderstanding on this point that has given rise to the

debate between realism and idealism in art. Art is certainly

only a more direct vision of reality. But this purity

of perception implies a rupture with useful convention,

an innate and specially localized disinterestedness of

the sense or of the consciousness, in short, a certain

immateriality of life which is what has always been called

idealism. So one might say without in the least playing upon

the sense of the words, that realism is in the work when

idealism is in the soul, and that it is by force of ideality

alone that one can regain contact with reality.

There are various other ways besides art whereby we may recover and

strengthen the faculty of intuition, which has been suffered to atrophy

through too exclusive a reliance upon rational processes. There is,

for example, action, life itself, the sense of living, which brings

us into immediate contact with reality. By the help of science, art,

and philosophy, we may achieve sympathy, a feeling of the kinship of

nature, a consciousness of interpenetration, a realization of the

meaning of evolution. Above all, philosophy has this aim and power, to

develop another faculty, complementary to the intellect, that will open

to us a perspective on the other half of reality, not capable of being

confined in the rigid formulas of deductive logic.

There are things that intelligence alone is able to seek but

which, by itself, it will never find. These things instinct

alone can find, but it will never seek them.

Intelligence and instinct are turned in opposite directions,

the former toward inert matter, the latter toward life.

Intelligence by means of science, which is its work, will

deliver up to us more and more completely the secret of

physical operations; of life it brings us, and moreover

only claims to bring us, a translation in terms of inertia.

It goes all around life, taking from the outside the

greatest possible number of views of it, drawing it into

itself instead of entering into it. But it is to the very

inwardness of life that _intuition_ leads--by intuition I

mean instinct that has become disinterested, self-conscious,

capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging it

indefinitely.

We see that the intellect, so skillful in dealing with the

inert, is awkward the moment it touches the living. Whether

it wants to treat the life of the body or the life of the

mind, it proceeds with the rigor, the stiffness, and the

brutality of an instrument not designed for such use. The

history of hygiene or of pedagogy teaches us much in this

matter.

In Bergson's system metaphysics occupies the same place that it does

in the works of Aristotle. Metaphysics is simply what is beyond

physics, not something antagonistic to it. He has not, like many modern

philosophers, been contemptuous toward physiological psychology. On the

contrary, he has mastered it and built upon it. This is the reason,

I think, why his ideas have met with such swift acceptance. It is as

absurd for a philosopher nowadays to attempt to confine himself to the

data accessible to Plato as it would be for a mathematician to attempt

to solve the problems of modern physics with the use of the methods of

Euclid.

Bergson applied his theory of the relation of mind and brain to the

explanation of the mechanism of dreaming, in an address before the

_Institut psychologique_ on March 28, 1901.[3] Here he showed how the

obscure sensations of sight, touch, and hearing which reach us even

during sleep furnish the basis for our dreams, and how our memories

fit into this framework, so the process is similar to that of ordinary

perception except that the critical faculty is less vigilant than in

a waking state. Thus, light flashing upon the closed eyes may give

rise to a dream of fire, and the recumbent posture and consequent

absence of pressure on the soles of the feet give us the idea of

floating in the air. The following passage from this paper on dreams

is of especial interest, for in it Bergson brings forward the theory

which since then Freud and his school have developed and in many cases

carried to extravagant lengths,--the theory that our memories are

stored in a state of tension like steam in a boiler, and may rise into

consciousness in various guises when the vigilance of the individual is

relaxed:

Our memories, at any given moment, form a solid whole, a

pyramid, so to speak, whose point is inserted precisely

into our present action. But behind the memories which are

concerned in our occupations and are revealed by means of

it, there are others, thousands of others, stored below the

scene illuminated by consciousness. Yes, I believe indeed

that all our past life is there, preserved even to the most

infinitesimal details, and that we forget nothing, and

that all that we have felt, perceived, thought, willed,

from the first awakening of our consciousness, survives

indestructibly. But the memories which are preserved in

these obscure depths are there in the state of invisible

phantoms. They aspire, perhaps, to the light, but they do

not even try to rise to it; they know that it is impossible

and that I, as a living and acting being, have something

else to do than to occupy myself with them.

But suppose that, at a given moment, I become

_disinterested_ in the present situation, in the present

action--in short, in all which previously has fixed and

guided my memory; suppose, in other words, that I am

asleep. Then these memories, perceiving that I have taken

away the obstacle, have raised the trapdoor which has kept

them beneath the floor of consciousness, arise from the

depths; they rise, they move, they perform in the night of

unconsciousness a great dance macabre. They rush together

to the door which has been left ajar. They all want to get

through. But they cannot; there are too many of them. From

the multitudes which are called, which will be chosen? It is

not hard to say. Formerly, when I was awake, the memories

which forced their way were those which could involve claims

of relationship with the present situation, with what I

saw and heard around me. Now it is more vague images which

occupy my sight, more indecisive sounds which affect my

ear, more indistinct touches which are distributed over the

surface of my body, but there are also the more numerous

sensations which arise from the deepest parts of the

organism. So, then, among the phantom memories which aspire

to fill themselves with color, with sonority, in short with

materiality, the only ones that succeed are those which can

assimilate themselves with the color-dust that we perceive,

the external and internal sensations that we catch, etc.,

and which, besides, respond to the effective tone of our

general sensibility. When this union is effected between the

memory and the sensation, we have a dream.

Bergson may be called a man of three books, if we ignore "Laughter",

which is merely a flying but-tress of his system. In the first, known

in English as "Time and Free Will", he develops his theory of vital

duration as distinct from physical time, which has been the guiding

clew of all his later thinking. This volume, completed in 1887, was

the outcome of a four years' study of the physical, psychological,

and metaphysical conceptions of time and space. For the second book,

dealing with the relation of the mind to the brain, it was necessary

to master the voluminous literature of the subject, especially the

clinical and experimental researches on aphasia and localization of

function. This required nine years of study, embodied in "Matter and

Memory", appearing in 1896. In the preparation for the third book he

devoted eleven years to the study of biology and produced "Creative

Evolution" in 1907. According to this rate of increase, we might expect

his fourth volume in 1923, but it would be obviously unfair to apply to

M. Bergson himself the mathematical determinism that he repudiates.

I call attention to this preliminary study of the sciences, because

there is a danger that the anti-intellectualist tendency of the

pragmatic movement should lead to a disregard of the importance of

scientific research. That this danger is real and present, was shown

in the Binet report on the teaching of philosophy, previously referred

to. Some of the professors complained that their students, under the

influence of Bergson's ideas, had come to have a disdain for the

tedious and laborious methods of experimental science, believing that

science does not give us reality, and assuming that, while science

is good enough for mechanics and physicians, it is indifferent to

philosophers.

When this point was brought up for discussion in the _Société française

de Philosophie_, M. Bergson made an indignant reply, declaring that

in the theories attributed to him he recognized nothing that he had

taught or written. He had never contemned science or subordinated it to

metaphysics.

Mathematics, for instance, what have I said of that? That,

however great may be the part played in it by the creative

imagination, it must not lose sight of space and matter;

that matter and space are realities; that matter is weighted

with geometry; that geometry is consequently not a mere

play but a true point of contact with the absolute. I

attribute the same absolute value to the physical sciences.

It is true they enunciate laws of which the form would have

been different if other variables, other units of measure,

had been chosen, and especially if the problems had been

propounded chronologically in a different order. But all

this is because we are obliged to break up nature and to

examine one by one the problems it sets for us. Really,

physics strives for the absolute, and it approaches more

and more as it advances this ideal limit. I should like to

know if there exists, among modern conceptions of science,

a theory that puts a higher value upon positive science.

Most of them give us science as entirely relative to human

intelligence. I hold, on the contrary, that it is reality

itself, absolute reality, which the mathematical and

physical sciences tend to reveal to us. Science only begins

to become relative, or rather symbolic, when it approaches

from the physico-chemical side, the problems of life and

consciousness. But even here it is quite legitimate. It only

needs then to be completed by a study of another kind, that

is, metaphysics. In short, all my researches have had no

other object than to bring about a _rapprochement_ between

metaphysics and science and to consolidate the one with the

other without sacrificing anything of either, after having

first clearly distinguished the one from the other.

This outspoken and emphatic language ought to clear the air of many

current misconceptions of Bergson's philosophy. Now that he has laid

down his fundamental principles, it is to be hoped that he will next

take up their applications to the interpretation of history and the

problems of conduct. If he does not do this himself, others will do it

for him, and doubtless not always in accordance with his intentions.

In fact, they are already doing it. In France, Bergsonianism is not an

academic speculation, but an active force in some of the most important

movements of the day. We hear of a Bergsonian art and a Bergsonian

literature as well as a Bergsonian Catholicism and a Bergsonian labor

movement. The two last mentioned are of especial interest as showing

the influence of his novel views upon the most diverse minds. Just

as there were Hegelians of the Right and Hegelians of the Left, so

now there are two wings of Bergsonianism, the conservative being the

Modernists and the radical being the Syndicalists.

There has rarely been seen such an outburst of enthusiasm for

metaphysical thought as that of the French neo-Catholics. The

pragmatic philosophy, particularly James's "Varieties of Religious

Experience", pointed the way to a new Christian apologetic based upon

living experience, instead of abstract reasoning. The young Catholics

turned their attention to the saints rather than to the theologians,

and found inspiration in a fresh study of the Catholic mystics. In a

conception of truth as a growth, as an ideal convergence of beneficial

beliefs, rather than as a static limit, and in a conception of history

as a progressive process of verification, they attained a point of

view which enabled them to retain their ecclesiastical heritage and

at the same time to accept the bounty of modern science. But such

speculations were deemed dangerous by the Vatican, and the movement

was crushed, so far as a movement of such vigor and vitality can be

crushed, by the Encyclical and Syllabus issued by Pius X in 1907, and

the anti-modernist oath that was later imposed.[4] This was followed

in 1914 by the placing of Bergson's works upon the Index of Prohibited

Books which no good Catholic may read without the express permission of

his spiritual adviser.

At the opposite extreme we find the trades unions or syndicates,

whose power has been often demonstrated in recent years, but whose

aims and ideals are yet indeterminate and vague. So far it is Will

and not Idea that is manifested in the revolutionary labor movement,

to use the Schopenhauerian terms. But becoming conscious of the need

of a philosophical justification, they have seized upon one side of

Bergson's doctrine and declared the _élan ouvrier_ brother to the _élan

vital_, or a part of it. Their flamboyant phraseology reminds one of

1793: "The Collège de France collaborates with the Bourse du Travail"

and "The flute of personal meditation harmonizes with the trumpets of

the social revolution." The syndicalists, like the modernists, have

their revolt against dogma, against the catchwords of republicanism

as well as against the rigid formulas of Marxianism, against all

attempts to confine the future in the past and to impose determinism

upon conduct. And when it comes to the enforcement of conformity--or,

rather, of uniformity--of profession, there is not much difference

between Pope and party.[5]

It is unnecessary to say that M. Bergson teaches neither Catholicism

nor revolution, and that he cannot be held accountable for all the

various applications of his ideas to practical life. I mention these

extremes only to show the range of their actual influence. Whatever may

be the fate of Bergson's philosophy, we may be sure it will not leave

the world as it found it. It is a force to be reckoned with at all

events in the field of action as well as in the realm of pure reason.

Very few references to disputed questions in religion, sociology, and

ethics can be found in his works, and since he prefers to use a new,

clean, and unconventional vocabulary, he cannot be pocketed in any of

the pigeonholes provided in advance by the historians of philosophy.

To the demand for a brief formulation of his philosophy, an indignant

Bergsonian retorts: "Can you put Maeterlinck's 'Pelléas and Mélisande'

into a formula?"

The Post Impressionists and Futurists are fond of ascribing their

novel ideas of art to Bergson, but he is not eager to assume the

responsibility. When I asked him about it, he said that he had never

yet been able to discover his philosophy in their paintings, and

further that he was always skeptical of a movement where the theory ran

so far ahead of the practice.

It is obvious that the adoption of the pragmatic principle,

particularly in the extreme Bergsonian form, would radically alter

our view of the past, and compel a rewriting or at least a rereading

of history. If history never repeats itself, what is its lesson for

us? Certainly it is not competent to foretell our future, still less

to prescribe our actions. The best expression of what seems to me the

legitimate ethical deductions of Bergson's philosophy is to be found

in the brilliant essays by L. P. Jacks. According to the editor of the

_Hibbert Journal_, the highest morality consists, not in following the

established rules, but in a voluntary rise into a higher level. The

true moral act is original, creative, unprecedented. What would the

author of "Folk-ways", for whom conformity was the only morality, have

said to the following:

"Had men all along restricted themselves to the performance of those

actions for which the warrant of moral science was then and there

available, many crimes perhaps would not have been committed, but it is

doubtful if the world would contain the record of a single noble deed.

We cannot remind ourselves too often that the most complete scientific

knowledge of what has been done up to date will never enable us to

answer the question, 'What ought to be done next?'

"The subject matter of science and the subject matter of morality

are entirely different and in a sense opposed; the first is the

deed-as-done, the second is the doing of a deed-to-be.

"Conscience rightly understood is no faculty of abstract judgment

laying down propositions as to what ought and ought not to be done; it

is not a 'voice', though we often name it such, bidding us do this or

that; it is rather an _élan vital_, an impulse, an active principle,

nay, the good _Will_ itself."--"Alchemy of Thought", by L. P. Jacks,

pp. 260, 287.

Among the numerous followers of Bergson, none is more enthusiastic

or sympathetic than Edouard Le Roy, a modernist Catholic--if that,

since the encyclical, is not a contradiction in terms--who has for

many years been in close touch with Bergson, and has been especially

interested in the religious and ethical applications of his theories.

His introduction to Bergson's philosophy is therefore useful, not

merely because it gives in brief a competent exposition of Bergson's

ideas, for the beginner would probably find it quite as profitable and

enjoyable to read the same number of pages of "Creative Evolution", but

chiefly because M. Le Roy is in a way an authorized spokesman, and so

we can get some notion of Bergson's opinions about questions on which

he has not yet expressed himself. For example, Bergson in all his books

never deals with religion, although it is obvious that his philosophy

has the closest relation with religion in many of its aspects. Le

Roy, however, is not so reticent, and he closes the volume with the

following noteworthy passage:

"In the depths of ourselves we find liberty; in the depths of universal

being we find a demand for creation. Since evolution is creative,

each of its moments works for the production of an indeducible and

transcendent future. This future must not be regarded as a simple

development of the present, a simple expression of germs already given.

Consequently we have no authority for saying that there is forever

only one order of life, only one plane of action, only one rhythm of

duration, only one perspective of existence. And if disconnections and

abrupt leaps are visible in the economy of the past--from matter to

life, from the animal to man--we have no authority again for claiming

that we cannot observe to-day something analogous in the very essence

of human life, that the point of view of the flesh, and the point of

view of the spirit, the point of view of reason, and the point of

view of charity are a homogeneous extension of it. And apart from

that, taking life in its first tendency, and in the general direction

of its current, it is ascent, growth, upward effort, and a work of

spiritualizing and emancipating creation: by that we might define Good,

for Good is a path rather than a thing.

"But life may fail, halt, or travel downward.... Each species, each

individual, each function tends to take itself as its end; mechanism,

habit, body and letter, which are, strictly speaking, pure instruments,

actually become principles of death. Thus it comes about that life is

exhausted in efforts toward self-preservation, allows itself to be

converted by matter into captive eddies, sometimes even abandons itself

to the inertia of the weight which it ought to raise, and surrenders to

the downward current which constitutes the essence of materiality: it

is thus that Evil would be defined, as the direction of travel opposed

to Good. Now, with man, thought, reflection, and clear consciousness

appear. At the same time also properly moral qualifications appear;

good becomes duty, evil becomes sin. At this precise moment, a new

problem begins, demanding the soundings of a new intuition, yet

connected at clear and visible points with previous problems.

"This is the philosophy which some are pleased to say is closed by

nature to all problems of a certain order, problems of reason or

problems of morality. There is no doctrine, on the contrary, which

is more open, and none which, in actual fact, lends itself better to

further extension."

I have quoted this entire, because Professor Bergson has given it his

indorsement in the plainest terms. In a letter to M. Le Roy about the

book, he says:

Your study could not be more conscientious or true to the

original. Nowhere is this sympathy more in evidence than

where you point the possibilities of further developments of

the doctrine. In this direction I should myself say exactly

what you have said.

The passage quoted above from M. Le Roy's book has, then, almost

the significance of a signed statement. It was observed that in his

lectures in New York Professor Bergson was much more outspoken than

formerly in his views upon religious matters; as, for example, when

he replied affirmatively to the question whether he believed in

immortality or not. It may be anticipated that his future work will be

in the development of his philosophy along the lines indicated by M. Le

Roy, although we may expect--judging from his former books--that this

will take the form, not of the formulation of a new moral code, but of

the discovery of a new way of looking at life and appraising action.

Until recently the triumphal march of Bergson into increasing

popularity and influence has met with little systematic opposition.

Some have found him obscure. Some have called him absurd. He has his

devoted partisans and bitter opponents. But his views have not yet

been subjected to the thorough criticism which they must inevitably

receive sooner or later. A step in this direction is the study of

the pragmatic movement by René Berthelot. The first volume of his

"Utilitarian Romanticism" deals with the pragmatism of Nietzsche and

Poincaré; the second with the pragmatism of Bergson. The author, after

the manner of historians of philosophy, is more concerned to determine

what is new in Bergson than what is true. He acts upon the old military

rule "divide and conquer" and accordingly splits up Bergsonism into

German romanticism and Anglo-Saxon utilitarianism, and then proceeds to

dispatch these severally after the orthodox manner. This procedure is

in a way begging the question, for it implicitly denies the Bergsonian

thesis that there may be something new in the world. Tracing a thing

back to its roots is all very well, provided that you do not assume

that the roots are all there is of the plant that has grown out of them.

In tracing this genealogy of thought M. Berthelot finds Bergson

related to Nietzsche on the romantic side. Both, he says, derive their

romanticism from Schelling; Bergson, through his revered teacher,

Ravaisson, and Nietzsche through Hoelderlin, Emerson, Schopenhauer,

and Wagner. "Like the symbolists, Nietzsche and Bergson have drunk in

different cups the water from the same magic fountain; an invisible

Vivian has bound them both in the same enchantment."

From the other side of the house--might we say the masculine

side?--Bergson derived his utilitarian empiricism; M. Berthelot traces

its descent from Berkeley through Hume, Mill, Bain, and Spencer. In the

course of this discussion the author introduces the following ingenious

formula:

Hobbes : Berkeley :: Nietzsche : Bergson.

Those who are sufficiently expert with the application of the rule of

three to metaphysics may work this out at their leisure.

One would suppose, on Mendelian principles, that a hybrid of such

diverse and distinguished intellectual ancestry would show more

originality than Berthelot is willing to allow to Bergson. At the end

of his analysis he comes to the conclusion that Bergson has really

made only one important contribution to philosophy; that is, his

conception of duration as distinguished from time. As Berkeley in

analyzing the idea of space showed how psychological space, that is,

the notion of space derived from sensation, differed from mathematical

or formal space, so Bergson has shown how concrete duration or

psychological time differs from mathematical or formal time. But

even this theory according to our author is misapplied by Bergson,

for it is not an opposition between space and time, but between two

different conceptions of both space and time. This is characteristic of

Berthelot's criticism, which is mainly directed toward breaking down

all along the line the dichotomy to which Bergson is addicted.

Bergson's literary skill and amazing popularity seem to annoy him as

they do other professors of philosophy in various lands. Whenever

Berthelot presents Bergson with a bundle of compliments, we may detect

a nettle hidden in the bouquet, as when he alludes to Bergson as

"the Debussy of contemporary philosophy", and he says that with an

increasing floridity of style the number of the _bergsoniennes_ has

come to surpass that of the _bergsoniens._ But that a philosophy should

become fashionable seems to me rather creditable to the public than

discreditable to the originator.

Professor Bergson has on several occasions expressed an interest in the

efforts of the Society of Psychical Research to throw light into dark

corners, and he has shown his sympathy by accepting the presidency of

the English society, a successor in that position to F. W. H. Myers,

Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir William Crookes, A. J. Balfour, and Andrew Lang.

In his presidential address delivered in Æolian Hall, London, May 28,

1913, Professor Bergson made the novel suggestion that if the same

amount of effort had been given toward the study of mental phenomena as

has been given to physical, we might now know as much about mind as we

do about matter. The concluding passage of the address is worth quoting:

What would have happened if all our science, for three

centuries past, had been directed toward the knowledge

of the mind, instead of toward that of matter--if,

for instance, Kepler and Galileo and Newton had been

psychologists? Psychology would have attained developments

of which one could no more form an idea than people had

been able, before Kepler and Galileo and Newton, to form an

idea of our astronomy and of our physics. Probably, instead

of their being disdained _a priori_, all the strange facts

with which psychical research was concerned would have

been sought out minutely. Probably we should have had a

vitalist biology quite different from ours, perhaps also a

different medicine, or therapeutics by way of suggestion

would have been pushed to a point of which we can form no

idea. But when the human mind, having pushed thus far the

science of mind, had turned toward inert matter, it would

have been confused as to its direction, not knowing how to

set to work, not knowing how to apply to this matter the

processes with which it had been successful up till then.

The world of physical, and not that of psychical, phenomena

would then have been the world of mystery. It was, however,

neither possible nor desirable that things should have

happened thus. It was not possible, because at the dawn of

modern times mathematical science already existed, and it

was necessary, consequently, that the mind should pursue

its researches in a direction to which that science was

applicable. Nor was it desirable, even for the science of

mind, for there would always have been wanting to that

science something infinitely precious--the precision, the

anxiety for proof, the habit of distinguishing that which

is certain and that which is simply possible or probable.

The sciences concerned with matter can alone give to the

mind that precision, that rigor, those scruples. Let us

now approach the science of mind with these excellent

habits, renouncing the bad metaphysic which embarrasses our

research, and the science of the mind will attain results

surpassing all our hopes.

But whatever might have been the result if Kepler, Galileo, and Newton

had turned their attention to psychology instead of physics, it must

be confessed that the Society for Psychical Research has been a

disappointment, notwithstanding that it has numbered among its zealous

investigators such distinguished scientists as Lodge, Crookes, and

Wallace. When the society was organized in 1882, its first president,

Professor Sidgwick, called attention to the numerous reports of

physical phenomena in the séance room and expressed the hope that

such evidence would be forthcoming more abundantly now that competent

investigators were prepared to deal with them. But quite the contrary

happened. As Mr. Podmore puts it in his book on "The Naturalization of

the Supernatural":

"In short, just when an organized and systematic investigation on a

scale not inadequate to the importance of the subject was for the first

time about to be made, the phenomena to be investigated diminished

rapidly in frequency and importance, and the opportunities for

investigation were further curtailed by the indifference or reluctance

of the mediums to submit their claims to investigation."

It would seem, then, that since mankind, or some small portion of it,

has acquired the precision, rigor, and scruples of physical science,

it has become difficult, even impossible, to cultivate the occult.

Still most of us would agree with M. Bergson that, assuming that there

was such an alternative opened to humanity as he supposes, science has

chosen the better part in undertaking the conquest of the physical

world first.

The religious importance of Bergson's theory of evolution will be

apparent from the quotations given. It has occurred to me in reading

his later work that in some passages the word "faith" could be

substituted for "philosophy", and "_elohim_" for "_élan vital_",

without materially altering the sense. Then, too, his emphasis of

time restores a conception which has always been a vital factor in

religious faith, but which is not found in the scientific conception

of the world as a reversible reaction or the metaphysical conception

of the world as an illusion of an unchangeable Absolute. The present

day is different from any other, and the future depends upon it. We

cannot console or excuse ourselves by saying, "It will be all the same

a hundred years hence." Now is the accepted time, the day of decision,

the unique opportunity, and the election may be irrevocable, a turning

point in the history of the creation. The atoms have lost their chance.

The animals are hopelessly sidetracked. Upon us depends the future, the

salvation of the world.

We must no longer speak of life in general as if it were an

abstraction, or a mere rubric under which all living beings

are enrolled. At a certain time, in certain points of space,

a very visible current originated. This current of life,

traversing the bodies which it has successively organized,

passing from generation to generation, has divided itself

among species and dispersed itself among individuals without

losing anything of its force.--"Creative Evolution"?

Bergson's philosophy would apparently lead to a conception of God

more Arminian than Calvinistic, if it is permissible to apply the

old theological categories; a God perhaps conscious, personal, and

anthropomorphic, but not omnipotent and unchangeable. In fact it has a

striking similarity to the conception of the Alexandrian Gnostics, a

creative force struggling against the intractability of inert matter

and triumphing by subtlety and persistence. The motto of Louis XI,

_Divide et impera_, applies here in a different sense:

God, thus defined, has nothing of the already made: He is

unceasing life, action, freedom. Creation, so conceived, is

not a mystery; we experience it in ourselves when we act

freely....

It is as if a vague and formless being whom we may call as

we will, man or superman, had sought to realize himself, and

had succeeded only by abandoning part of himself on the way.

The losses are represented by the rest of the animal world

and even by the vegetable world.--"Creative Evolution", pp.

248, 266.

According to this view, the world is gradually coming to life,

acquiring a consciousness. Matter is an Undine in search of a soul.

A Rodin statue with human forms emerging from the unhewn stone is

Bergson's philosophy in marble. We see again Milton's "tawny lion

pawing to get free his hinder parts." We hear again Faust's translation

of the Logos: "In the beginning was the Act."

But I must refrain from imposing such analogies upon an author who has

taken pains to clothe his thought in fresh language in order to be free

from the connotations of the old. Let Bergson summarize his theory of

evolution in his own words:

Life as a whole, from the initial impulsion that thrust

it into the world, will appear as a wave that rises, and

which is opposed by the descending movement of matter. On

the greater part of its surface, at different heights, the

current is converted by matter into a vortex. At one point

alone it passes freely, dragging with it the obstacle which

will weigh on its progress but will not stop it. At this

point is humanity; it is our privileged situation. On the

other hand, this rising wave is consciousness, and, like all

consciousness, it includes potentialities without number

which interpenetrate and to which consequently neither the

category of unity nor that of multiplicity is appropriate,

made as they both are for inert matter. The matter that

it bears along with it, and in the interstices of which

it inserts itself, alone can divide it into distinct

individualities. On flows the current, running through

human generations, subdividing itself into individuals.

This subdivision was vaguely indicated in it, but could

not have been made clear without matter. Thus souls are

continually being created, which, nevertheless, in a certain

sense pre-existed. They are nothing else than the little

rills into which the great river of life divides itself,

flowing through the body of humanity. The movement of the

stream is distinct from the river bed, although it must

adopt its winding course. Consciousness is distinct from

the organism it animates, although it must undergo its

vicissitudes. As the possible actions which a state of

consciousness indicates are at every instant beginning to

be carried out in the nervous centers, the brain underlines

at every instant the motor indications of the state of

consciousness; but the interdependency of consciousness and

brain is limited to this; the destiny of consciousness is

not bound up on that account with the destiny of cerebral

matter. Finally, consciousness is essentially free; it

is freedom itself; but it cannot pass through matter

without settling on it, without adapting itself to it;

this adaptation is what we call intellectuality; and the

intellect, turning itself back toward active, that is to

say, free, consciousness, naturally makes it enter into the

conceptual forms into which it is accustomed to see matter

fit. It will, therefore, always perceive freedom in the form

of necessity; it will always neglect the part of novelty or

of creation inherent in free act; it will always substitute

for action itself an imitation, artificial, approximate,

obtained by compounding the old with the old and the

same with the same. Thus, to the eyes of a philosophy

that attempts to reabsorb intellect in intuition, many

difficulties vanish or become light. But such a doctrine

does not only facilitate speculation, it gives us also more

power to act and to live. For, with it, we feel ourselves

no longer isolated in humanity, humanity no longer seems

isolated in the nature that it dominates. As the smallest

grain of dust is bound up with our entire solar system,

drawn along with it in that undivided movement of descent

which, is materiality itself, so all organized beings, from

the humblest to the highest, from the first origins of life

to the time in which we are, and in all places as in all

times, do but evidence a single impulsion, the inverse of

the movement of matter, and in itself indivisible. All the

living hold together, and all yield to the same tremendous

push. The animal takes its stand on the plant, man bestrides

animality, and the whole of humanity, in space and in time,

is one immense army galloping beside and before and behind

each of us in an overwhelming charge able to beat down every

resistance and clear the most formidable obstacles, perhaps

even death.--"Creative Evolution", p. 269.

* * * * *

HOW TO READ BERGSON

Read the last first. Begin with "Creative Evolution", for this is the

most comprehensive exposition of his philosophy and is written in

a less technical style than his earlier works. But the reader must

remember that a knowledge of these is presupposed, and Bergson has

here taken for granted what he has written two other large volumes to

prove; namely, that time cannot be adequately represented in the forms

of space, and that mind is not rigidly bound to matter. Bergson is

unexcelled by any modern philosopher except William James in brilliancy

of style and originality of illustration. "Creative Evolution" treats

of such a variety of questions, biological, psychological, and

metaphysical, that any intelligent reader will find something in it

that will arouse new trains of thought. And if the intelligent reader

finds passages which he cannot understand, he may console himself with

the reflection that there are others who have been likewise baffled.

Count Keyserling, who has the brain of a German metaphysician, says of

Bergson that "his philosophy is perhaps the most original achievement

since the days of Immanuel Kant", but he adds, "Many thoughts on which

Bergson appears to lay great weight arouse in me not the shade of an

idea." But he ascribes Bergson's obscurity to the fact that "he does

not start from abstract principles; he begins in direct consciousness,

in concrete life", so perhaps the ordinary reader may have in this

respect an advantage over a Kantian student like Count Keyserling.

The student of philosophy may prefer to trace the development of

Bergson's thought in its logical and chronological order. He will

in that case begin with the "Essai sur les donnés immédiates de la

conscience" (1889), and proceed to "Matière et Mémoire" (1896), and

end with "Evolution créatrice" (1907). These are published by Félix

Alcan, Paris, in his "Bibliothèque de Philosophie contemporaine." The

"Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness" appears under the less

cumbrous title of "Time and Free Will" in the translation of F. L.

Pogson (Macmillan). "Matter and Memory" is translated by Nancy Margaret

Paul and W. Scott Palmer (Macmillan). It may not be improper to note

that the British edition of the Essay costs nearly four times as much

as the French and is twice as heavy. "Creative Evolution", translated

by Arthur Mitchell, is printed in this country by Henry Holt & Company.

Bergson's lecture on Dreams, translated by E. E. Slosson, is published

in book form by B. W. Huebsch, New York.

Those who read French but do not wish to attack one of the larger works

will find convenient the summary of his philosophy with illustrative

selections made by one of his former pupils, René Gillouin, and

published in "Les Grands Philosophes" by Louis Michaud, Paris. The

German reader will find in A. Steenbergen's "Bergsons Intuitive

Philosophie", Jena, an epitome and critique.

"Time and Free Will" contains an admirable bibliography, including the

most important discussions of Bergson's philosophy that have appeared

in eight languages up to 1911. The most interesting introduction to

Bergson is the article published by Professor James in the _Hibbert

Journal_, April, 1909, and reprinted in his _Pluralistic Universe_.

This has the advantage of M. Bergson's indorsement, for when Professor

Pitkin of Columbia attempted to show that James was wrong in claiming

Bergson as an ally ("James and Bergson, or Who is Against Intellect?"

in _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Method_, April

28, 1910), Bergson replied that James had not misinterpreted him but

had said what he meant in better words than his (same _Journal_, July

7, 1910). Other brief expositions of Bergson's philosophy are the

articles by H. Wildon Carr in _Proc. Aristotelian Society_, 1909 and

1910, and _Hibbert Journal_, July, 1910; by J. Solomon in _Mind,_

January, 1911 (both these now in book form also); by Arthur Balfour on

"Creative Evolution and Philosophic Doubt" in the decennial number of

the _Hibbert Journal_; "Bergson's Philosophy and the Idea of God," by

H. C. Corrance, and "Syndicalism in its Relation to Bergson," by T.

Rhondda Williams, both in _Hibbert Journal_ of January, 1914. Professor

Arthur O. Lovejoy of Johns Hopkins criticizes "The Practical Tendencies

of Bergsonianism" in the _International Journal of Ethics_, April and

July, 1913. Bergson's London lectures on the soul are summarized in the

_Educational Review_, January, 1912. Santayana's "Winds of Doctrine"

(Scribner) contains an interesting chapter on Bergson's philosophy.

Of the voluminous controversial literature in France it is only

possible to mention a few recent titles: R. Gillouin, "La Philosophie

de Bergson" (Grasset); J. Segond, "L'Intuition Bergsonienne" (Alcan);

J. Desaymard, "La Pensée d'Henri Bergson" (Mercure de France). The

most conspicuous of the opponents of Bergson are: René Berthelot in

"Un Romanticisme utilitaire," tome II, "Le Pragmatisme chez Bergson"

(Alcan); and Julien Benda in "Le Bergsonisme ou une Philosophie de la

Mobilité", and "Réponse aux Défenseurs du Bergsonisme" (Mercure de

France).

"Bergson for Beginners", by Darcy B. Kitchin (Macmillan) gives a

summary of his works and adds some interesting observations on the

relation of Bergson to the English philosophers James Ward and Herbert

Spencer. Other recent expositions and criticisms are "The Philosophy

of Bergson", by A. D. Lindsay; "A Critical Examination of Bergson's

Philosophy", by J. McKellar Stewart; "An Examination of Professor

Bergson's Philosophy", by David Balsillie; "Bergson and the Modern

Spirit", by G. R. Dodgson (American Unitarian Assoc., Boston). But the

best volume to serve as an introduction to Bergson is that previously

mentioned, "The New Philosophy of Henri Bergson", by Edouard Le Roy

(Holt).

A list of the most important of the books and articles on the subject

in all languages up to 1913 comprising more than five hundred titles

was published by the Columbia University Press on the occasion of

Bergson's visit, "A Contribution to a Bibliography of Henri Bergson."

[1] Reported in the _Bulletin de la Société française de Philosophie_,

1908.

[2] For his views on the possibility of scientific metaphysics, see _Le

Parallélisme psycho-physique et la métaphysique positive_ in _Bulletin

de la Société française de Philosophie_, June, 1901; and _Introduction

à la métaphysique_ in _Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale_, January,

1903.

[3] Published in the _Revue scientifique_, June 8, 1901, and in English

in _The Independent_, October 23-30, 1913, and in book form, 1914.

[4] Articles on pragmatic Catholicism may be found in almost any volume

of the _Revue Philosophique_ and the _Revue de Métaphysique et de

Morale_ during the first twelve years of the twentieth century. See

especially those by Edouard Le Roy, a disciple of James and Bergson. A

brief account of the movement is contained in Lalande's "Philosophy in

France, 1907", _Philosophical Review_, May, 1908.

[5] As representatives of the pragmatic syndicalists may be mentioned

George Sorel and Edouard Berth. For an account of the philosophical

side of the movement, see _Syndicalistes et Bergsoniens_ by C. Bougie

in _Revue__du Mois_, April, 1909.